


Relief

by DeandraAlleyan



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, First Meetings, How They Met
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:42:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25786810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeandraAlleyan/pseuds/DeandraAlleyan
Summary: While the company tarries at Cormallen, Eomer seeks relief from his worries, and receives unexpected assistance.[one-shot]
Relationships: Éomer Éadig/Lothíriel, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 41





	Relief

_(Cormallen, April, 3019 III)_

Eothain ducked into the tent without announcing himself, as was his wont, but came to a halt at the sight that met his eyes. For several moments, he just stood gazing with unreadable eyes on the hunched figure before him, then giving a soft sigh moved to join his friend.

Eomer looked up as the large hand firmly gripped his shoulder, and then the camp cot creaked when Eothain sat down beside him. The bed had never been meant to bear the weight of two full grown men, still partly clad in armor from their earlier ride about the encampment.

At length, Eothain encouraged, “Eomer, why the long face? Come, wash and change into that clean clothing they found for us, then join in the celebrations.” Even as he said it, he suspected his words were falling on deaf ears.

Leaning forward to put his elbows onto his knees, the king gave no answer. For some time Eomer simply stared unseeingly across the tent, but finally shook his head wearily. “No, I cannot.” He raised a crumpled parchment that he held and Eothain could see that it appeared to be a letter.

Rising, Eomer paced the confines of the tent, then stopped and gazed at his longtime friend. “We have won, yes, but at what cost? Theoden dead, as are many of our kinsmen. And now Eowyn, though healed, will not join me here – what am I to make of that?” He scrubbed at his face, and the lingering dampness from his sweat streaked the dirt there.

Eothain could think of no words to ease his friend’s distress. At last he merely commented quietly, “Those who died, died with honor, Eomer. If nothing else, we may hold to that knowledge. As for Eowyn, I do not know her reason for tarrying in Mundburg, but you must trust that in time she too will find peace just as Middle-earth finally has.”

Ducking his head a moment, Eomer at last looked up and gave his companion a weak smile of gratitude. “I thank you for your concern, my friend, but I need to be alone just now. My heart is not presently attuned to celebrating, and I do not wish my ill mood to burden others. Go, enjoy yourself. I will be fine in my solitude. Give me time – I will get over this melancholy, I am sure.”

He wasn’t entirely convinced by the words, but still Eothain rose and did as bid, giving his lord a respectful nod before departing. Long minutes passed with Eomer merely standing where he was in the middle of the tent, but at length he began to remove the rest of the armor that he bore and set it aside. Trying to force all thought from his mind, he moved to the bucket of water provided and washed the worst of the dirt from his face and other exposed areas, then quickly slipped on the clean clothing. Clearly it had belonged to a shorter, though stouter, man as it did not reach far enough down his legs and arms, yet hung a bit loose around the middle. Retrieving his belt from the armor, he cinched it in place lest he lose the trousers. As for the rest, well, he did not intend to be seen enough to cause amusement in others as to his appearance.

Outside the tent, dusk was settling over the camp and already music was heard from various directions. There was much laughter, singing and talking all around him, and it took a moment to determine where he might turn to escape it. Thinking it likely to offer more solitude, he moved toward the riverbank. Earlier he had seen a grassy shoulder that led down to a small pebbly beach, affording access to the water. Few would venture that way this night, when food, drink and revelry was to be found elsewhere. 

As he wove his way through the sea of tents and cookfires, he snared a tankard of ale from a passing tray, and the bearer flashed him a grin of approval before moving on. A few swallows washed the dirt from his throat, and just that small comfort eased his tension slightly.

Once he cleared the edge of the campsite, the din of the celebrations dimmed somewhat, and now that the glow of fires was not so bright in his eyes he could see the stars beginning to dot the night sky over him. The sight caused him to stop and gaze at them for several minutes; he had not had much time for stargazing of late. Indeed, he was not sure he had thought to look at the night sky for more than direction or weather information in many years. He had forgotten how beautiful that glittering expanse could be, obscured for so long by Mordor’s evil.

Sighing again, his morose mood returning at the thought of Mordor, he pressed on toward the water’s edge. A tall tree stood on a small promontory, and he went to lean against it as he continued to sip at the ale. Glancing down at his drink, he wrinkled his nose. _Gondorian ale. Not too bad, but nothing to the Riddermark’s finest!_ This weak brew would never put him under a table!

The sound of a twig snapping put him on the alert, and in a quick motion he drained the tankard and silently set it at the foot of the tree. Pressing more deeply into the shadows, his eyes searched the vicinity to find what had caused the sound. It was not impossible an enemy could have snuck near, and while he was not armed, he would do whatever he could to sound an alarm and forestall the danger here until help could arrive.

Into the moonlight stepped a woman, and for a moment he was so transfixed by the ethereal sight of her that he did not move. He watched as she glided slowly toward the water’s edge. 

She had the raven hair he had begun to find so appealing during those brief days in Mundburg, before the March on the Gate, though in the moon’s light it was turned silvery. Most Gondorian women that he had observed tended to wear their hair up in tight braids and buns that he did not find especially attractive, but this woman had let hers fall loose and free around her shoulders, and it was glorious to his eyes. His fingers twitched with the urge to slither through the silky fall, but he caught himself up mentally and reminded himself he did not even know this woman.

She had picked up a few pebbles and was idly tossing them into the water, the soft plinking as they struck sounding almost musical. Eomer shifted in place, considering his options. He had no wish to rudely spy upon the poor woman, but he was not altogether sure she desired company any more than he did. And, yet, where else might he go for solitude than here?

He was startled from his thoughts when a lilting voice called to him, “I do not believe we have been introduced, my lord.”

Glancing up, he found she had turned to gaze at him without his notice, and he wondered that she had discerned his presence. He was sure he had not given himself away with noise. Still, he was discovered and there was nothing to do but respond. “No, I think you are correct.” He moved forward into the moonlight and offered, “I am Eomer of Rohan.” Probably he should have mentioned he was the king-designate, but he could not yet bring himself to claim that.

She gave a small curtsy in his direction and replied, “I am Lothiriel, my lord.” The name sounded vaguely familiar, though he could not quite place where he had heard it before.

“It is my pleasure to meet you, Lothiriel,” he remarked politely.

Her eyes were watching him closely, and he had the uncomfortable feeling she was seeing more than he intended to reveal. After a moment, she took a few steps toward him and said, “I am pleased as well, my lord, but I think perhaps I intrude on your solitude.”

He gave a sigh and looked down, then shrugged. “You have as much right to be here as I do.” He could move away, farther down the riverbank and afford them both their solitary reverie, but his feet did not take the steps to do it.

She was still watching him and observed softly, “You appear troubled, my lord. Is there aught I may do to help?”

He blinked at the offer, not expecting it nor the powerful desire that arose to confide in this stranger. But perhaps if he could speak of his thoughts it would ease his mind. It was difficult to talk with Eothain, who was too close to the problems himself. An outsider might offer fresh perspective.

At his hesitancy, she added, “Forgive me, I should not have presumed –”

“No, do not apologize. I was merely considering your offer. I…doubt very much that you can help in any direct way, but if you would be so kind as to listen, perhaps it will help me order my thoughts more clearly.” He looked away, feeling awkward. Such conversation as this was not something he normally did in the company of a lovely woman. Other than Eowyn, he did not think any woman had ever shared his thoughts.

She turned to gaze out over the water flowing past them and waited. Having agreed to this, Eomer suddenly found he did not know how to begin. He did not know how much she knew of recent events, particularly as they pertained to him, so perhaps he would have to start by filling her in about that.

“My uncle…was killed on the Pelennor during the battle there. He has named me his successor, as king of Rohan,” he quietly told her, glancing toward her face for a reaction to his words.

She nodded. “I have heard such. Your uncle was a good and brave man, and it is clear that the Rohirrim greatly esteemed and loved him.”

His jaw clenched at her words, but he nodded affirmation. “Yes. But more than that, he was as a father to me when my own was killed. He took me and my sister into his household, and loved us as dearly as he did his own son.” Nervously, he stooped and scooped up some pebbles, then began following her earlier example of tossing them in the water. It helped having something physical to do.

“Your sister is Eowyn, the White Lady. I met her at Minas Tirith while there before joining my father and brothers here,” she quietly acknowledged.

He turned to look into her eyes, seeking some hint there of what she had seen. “Why does she not come and join in our celebration?” he asked. “I have begged her to do so, for I would make amends since we parted in anger when I left. Yet, though she claims to be well, she will not come.” His confusion was evident, more than he realized.

Lothiriel bit her lip and looked away from him. Her own posture now seemed a bit tense to him, and it struck him that there was something she was not telling him. Still gazing the other way, she asked, “Would you have me speak plainly, my lord, even though my words may be…inappropriate?”

“Inappropriate? In what way?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

Now she did look at him, and taking a deep breath said, “I have…belief of certain things, but they are not yet spoken abroad. I may be speaking out of turn and making things known which it is not my place to reveal. I only offer to do so that I may relieve your concern.”

She was carefully wording her comments, but still they alarmed him somewhat. _What did she know, or believe?_ “Speak plainly. I will hold your words in confidence if anyone should ever ask. I would learn whatever you know of my sister,” he avowed.

Nodding, she dipped her head again, then told him, “I believe your sister has found love, my lord, with a very good man. It is he who binds her to the city though you call for her.”

Eomer’s eyes went wide. _Impossible! She was in love with Aragorn; it had been painfully obvious to more than just him._ “Perhaps…you misinterpreted a friendship, my lady. My sister…has only recently displayed…affection for another, who I know is not in the White City at this time.” He chose his words as carefully as she had.

Now the woman’s eyes were troubled as she looked at him, pondering his words. Finally she said, “I cannot explain that to you; I only know what I witnessed with my own eyes. Yet, no announcements have been made and nothing was declared to me. Perhaps…she only flirts with this man and her intent is not sincere, if as you say her heart belongs with another.”

Eomer’s brow knit. “It is not like Eowyn to behave so. If she looks favorably on this man, as you believe, then she is in earnest. She would not toy with his affections until someone else returned to fill her arms.” He did not miss the flash of relief that flitted over the woman’s face. He wondered that she seemed so personally interested in this matter.

“Faramir is a good man–” she offered, but he interrupted.

“Faramir? Is not that the name of the Steward’s son, who is now Steward himself?” Eomer queried. He vaguely remembered Imrahil saying something to that effect just yesterday.

She nodded. “A finer man there never was, my lord.”

He gave a snort. “So fine a man that he would court a woman without her brother’s permission? If he has taken any liberties with–”

“Faramir is true and honorable in all things, my lord!” she announced angrily. “He would not behave in so disrespectful a way toward any woman! As for your permission, I do not doubt he will seek it as soon as he is able. He has only recently recovered from being near death, and you have long been gone from the city. What opportunity has he had to approach you openly?”

At first stunned by her stinging rebuke, after a moment it caused a slight grin to tweak Eomer’s mouth. This woman was positively regal when she was riled! Not that her dark eyes needed any help, but he could not keep from admiring the spark of fire her anger gave them. Then another thought occurred. “You seem to know this man rather…well.”

“Why should I not?” she exclaimed. “I have long loved both he and his dear brother, who is now lost to us. My cousin is the finest and best of men, and frankly I shall count myself fortunate if I marry a man even half so marvelous as he!”

 _Cousin? Father and brothers here? Lothiriel?_ Suddenly it all clicked into place where Eomer had heard the name before. “You are Imrahil’s daughter?” he demanded, more bluntly than he intended, recalling conversations over the past few days with the Dol Amrothians.

“I am. What of it?” she asked, still apparently in ill humor over his seeming slight of Faramir.

He smiled down at the ground, then looked up at her and reached for her hands. For an instant, she resisted his taking them into his grasp, but finally relented. Sincerely he told her, “I apologize. I value your family most highly, and your father also speaks well of Faramir. I did not intend to cause offense.” He dropped her hands and rubbed the back of his neck. “It is just so puzzling. I do not understand what is going on, but I think perhaps I must wait to see with my own eyes and let Eowyn explain herself. It is not appropriate for me to make a judgement on the matter based solely on our speculation and observation of things.”

Turning, he moved closer to the water. “I should very much like to see my sister find happiness, though. She well deserves it, but there has not been much of it in her life.” The thought crossed his mind that had Eowyn not ridden disguised into battle with them, she would not be in Gondor now and this would not be happening. Was it possible some good could come of her very nearly dying alongside Theoden. Eomer fervently hoped so. If Eowyn could find joy, then his heart could be eased over the loss of their uncle.

“Would you tell me more of this Faramir, and of what you witnessed?” he asked at length. “I should like to hear all.” Then with a grin, he added, “And perhaps when you are done, you will tell me somewhat of yourself, my lady. I think I shall be most pleased to learn more of you as well!”

She ducked her head, and he presumed a blush had shaded her cheeks though he could not detect it in the darkness, but the smile on her lips was not displeased. Eomer drew a deep breath of the fresh night air, and felt the tension drain from him. A warm smile lit his own face in return, and he offered her his arm. Slowly they strolled along the riverbank, and talked long into the night.

_THE END_

10-29-07

**Author's Note:**

> Someone once accused me of writing "50 Ways to Meet Your Lover" for Eomer & Lothiriel. Well, I don't have 50 of them, but it is over 20, so they'll keep coming for a while.


End file.
